


The Assist

by rothalion



Category: Army Of Two (Video Game)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 17:48:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11295666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rothalion/pseuds/rothalion
Summary: Salem provides an 'assist' to a French Foreign Legion squad. The FFL guys are all mine, so I guess it is a sort of crossover between my original fiction and Army of Two.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Kajetán and his squad are my original characters. He is part of a large work that I am developing. I just thought it might be fun to get the fellows together. Kajetán and his guys should be speaking French, but short of a few phrases my French is terrible. There will be some in future chapters.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salem provides an 'assist' for a squad of struggling French Foreign Legion fellows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a crossover with an original story that I am developing. Kajetán and his guys are my original characters.

                                                                                                                                               _**Assist**_  
                                                                                                                                                  _One_

French Foreign Legion Corporal Kajetán Kölyökkutya crouched down behind the chipped, weather-worn wall. The twenty-eight year old blinked against the flying bits of stone, flinched and spit to his right after yet another batch of rounds shattered his team’s minimal cover. What had begun as a routine patrol was now more of a life and death standoff. An unexpectedly strong rebel force had his five man squad out gunned, outnumbered and pinned down five long klicks from their objective, a small goat herder’s village perched on the edge of the scree swept gully that they needed to cross. While the squad hunkered down taking constant mortar, RPG and small arms fire, Kajetán poured over his map while chatting with his HQ. The news was decidedly grim, which did not surprise the American. Being disposable was simply part of a Legionnaire’s job, but being a tough enough bastard to prevent being disposed of was also part of it, and Kajetán liked to think his 2nd REP team was better than most. Still, they were 180 klicks from home and the unforeseen contacts were picking them apart. Just as he reached up to key his mic, a sharp distinct shot report shattered the cacophony and echoed through the valley.  
       “The hell was that, Chiot?” Theo hissed. Sinking even lower, and pressing against his right shoulder.  
       “Fuck if I know.” Kajetán hissed.  
       “And again, Chiot, fuck!”  
       “Fifty cal, by sound of it, Theo.” Kajetán replied, breathlessly to his second, “Out of the east, out of those hillocks. Whoever it is can’t hit shit if they’re aiming at us.”  
       “Not us, Chiot, them!” Henri hollered incredulously, then, making use of the lull in fire, and looking over the low wall through his binoculars at the village,      “RPG is down. Second round took out mortar, oh, oh, oh and yes, there goes second mortar with round three. The sorry fucks are running, Chiot. I can’t believe this shit. Who the fuck’s up in those hills?”  
       “I don’t know, but we damn sure needed the assist. Henri, move us out. We need to make that village by nightfall.”  
                                                                                                                                                 #  
       Six hundred meters to the Legionnaire’s east, Salem squinted through the Barret M107 .50 caliber’s scope and watched the Legionnaires form up and move tactically across the now safe valley bottom. He smiled and flipped the scope’s protective lids closed. Rios’ furious voice filled his left ear. The younger man hadn’t answered his comms in over an hour, not since he’d stumbled upon the beleaguered squad. The poor bastards were pinned down, pretty much out in the open. What was he supposed to do? Just sit back and watch them get picked off or blasted to bits while they waited for nightfall. _Démerde toi_ my happy ass, he thought. Sometimes a fellow needed a leg up.  
       Content with his assist, the twenty-five year old, SSC operator slowly slid on his belly back from the ridge and out from in between the boulders that he was using as cover. Once clear, he rolled to his right and scooted back against the large barrier. He could feel the warmth of the sun scorched rock leeching out against the back of his bare, sand scathed neck. Salem sighed, took a long pull from his Camelback and let his head loll back against the stone. Then, after closing his eyes against the blinding sun, for ten long minutes, he snapped them open, settled his sunglasses on his sun burnt nose and got moving. With practiced ease, he broke down the Barret and slipped it into his desert tan drag bag. Then, he reloaded the clip. The simple task elicited another sigh. He had used three precious rounds rescuing the Legionnaires. That left him seven. Best case scenario, he needed three for his own objective, and he was feeling a bit under supplied. The .50 caliber rounds were heavy, and when going it solo Salem paid a dear price carrying extra weight. Now, he’d used some of that extra weight on strangers foolish enough to get caught out in the open. With Rios still screeching at him, he slung his packs onto his back and set off north-west into the setting sun and toward his own objective.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the French is tolerable. I will accept any corrections sent my way. I apologize for any grave errors.

 

Two

Four weeks after the firefight in the desert, Kajetán was sitting outside of his team’s conex hooch ringing out his tee shirts into a basin of tepid gray water. He shook the one in hand out hard, unfurling it, and scowled. No amount of scrubbing ever managed to clean the desert’s filth from the cotton fabric. As he tossed it onto the nearby pile, movement on what passed as the main road through the F.O.B. caught his eye.  He looked up, then did a double take. Slogging along, with a slight limp, in a cloud of thin trailing dust was a man in a desert terrain outfitted Gilly suit.

       Kajetán stood up, stepped clear of the camouflage net shade and watched the strange apparition. He had the suit turned down at the waist and atop his head was an odd mask adorned with bright red yellow and orange flames. Kajetán noted that he wasn’t a big man and that his pack had to weigh nearly what he did. But what was attached to it shocked him. Strapped across the odd man’s shoulders was unmistakably a .50 caliber Barrett 107. It was obvious too that he’d been out on recon for a while. He seemed weary to the bone.

        Before the confused Legionnaire could really make any further judgment about the scene, a battered jeep sped up and slid to a stop just in front of the walker, in a now swirling cloud of dust. A huge soldier clad in black, bloused cargo pants, a tight black tee shirt emblazoned with the letters SSC across the chest jumped out and strode the final paces to the man. Without saying a word, he shoved the smaller soldier backwards hard nearly knocking him over. Kajetán twitched starting to step forward but stopped. It wasn’t his fight. Then, to the Legionnaire’s surprise, the small man raised his weapon across his chest and shoved the giant viciously back staggering him despite his size. The entire encounter was bizarre at best. As Theo, drawn by the sound of the jeep pulling up, stepped alongside Kajetán, the small man spoke.

       “Fuck’s your problem, fat ass?” he rasped his voice hoarse. It seemed like he wanted to holler but didn’t possess the strength.

       “You are fucking three days late with no comms is my fucking problem.”

       “Comms? Give you comms. Here, here’s your fuckin’ comms!”

       Kajetán and Theo watched as the angry operator tore his communication gear from his neck and mashed it into the big man’s heaving chest. The man grasped the tangle of wires, looked at it and threw it into the back of the jeep.

       “Cheap ass shit quit…guess when…three fuckin’ days ago! So fuck you. Now move your tired, fat ass.”

       Stepping around the big man, he ripped the odd mask from his head and threw it viciously after the comms gear. Then, he started worming the huge pack and weapon off of his back. To Kajetán’s surprise, the giant blew out a long huff of breath and after turning round tugged the gear gently free and set it carefully into the bed of the idling jeep. Finally, after making sure it was secure, he looked worriedly at his partner and as if reading his mind, he pointed at the gear.

      "Fifty’s secure. Mount up.”

       The smaller man crossed to the passenger side and climbed stiffly into the jeep. The big man followed squeezed into the driver's seat and after a brief glance at his charge, he scrubbed his right hand companionably through his long filthy hair and sped away. Several moments and a u-turn later, the jeep passed again. The small man was slumped down in the seat with his right foot up on the dash board clearly asleep.

       “ Ha, Chiot! Je n’en crois pas mes yeux! L’enfer était-ce?” Theo snapped.

        “Va savoir pourquoi. Notre aide, peut-être? Stay here. I’m going after them.”

       “Notre aide? L’aide? Non. Non merde! A two bit American merc? A tiny two bit…”

       “Yea, well that tiny two bit merc just walked out of the desert and is lugging around a fifty cal. Theo.  I’m going after him. Watch the shop.”

        Kajetán stepped out into the dust cloud left behind by the jeep and walked resolutely after it. He knew that the PMC’s had a small enclave at the far west end of the base. They tended to stay to themselves, which, as far as most folks were concerned, was a good thing. He was, in fact, barred from having any contact with them. So this little mission to locate his recent assist was risky. About four hundred yards down the road, he watched the jeep slow and turn left into the enclave. Getting in would not pose a problem. There were several small stores that catered to the base, as well as the only real laundry along that track, so if an excuse was needed he had one despite the fact that they all did their clothes by hand.

       He slowed, stepped to the side in the shade of a barber’s camouflage netting and waited for the jeep to stop at its destination. It did, finally, at a conex and sandbagged hooch midway down on the left across from a makeshift coffee shop. Kajetán continued down the track and slipped into the tiny shop. He shook his head at the scene around him. The mercs and the American troops had all the comforts of home. It would, he knew, only make them soft.

       After making sure no other Legionnaires were nearby, he slid into a seat where he could see into the front of the little mercenary’s hooch. The track was nearly two lanes wide at that point and the conex was set back another twenty-five feet from that. Still, he could easily observe the two men.

       Once the big man parked the jeep, he unloaded the gear dropping the pack just outside of the door in the shade of the camouflage netting, and then after unlocking the door carried the weapons inside. After a trip back to the jeep for the comms gear and mask, he returned and grabbed the pack toting it into the space. As Kajetán watched, light suddenly filled the hooch. The operator had opened the conex’s rear doors allowing what little breeze there was to drift through. Then, he ambled back to the jeep where he stood for several long moments staring at his sleeping companion. Kajetán was surprised when instead of just waking the smaller man up he instead lifted him, with relative ease and, the Legionnaire thought, an odd familiarity, out of the jeep and toted him inside.

       “You gonna sit there, you have to order.” A gruff voice snapped drawing his attention away from the increasingly strange duo.

       He looked at the clerk bemusedly and feigned a smile. Order, sure he thought, I really need a frappe right now. Then, without trying to mask his disdain, “Water, bottled, with gas. Manage that?”

       The clerk scampered away and he went back to watching his target. Once he had the small man inside, he laid him down on a bunk and started to get him out of the remainder of his gear. By the time Kajetán’s water arrived, the small mercenary was stripped down to cargo pants and a tee shirt. Then, as if the situation wasn’t crazy enough, the big man began carefully dressing his partner's wounds, and finally, after digging in what had to be a small refrigerator, he placed ice packs on the sleeping man’s right shin, right shoulder, and right wrist. Kajetán had seen enough. If this man was indeed his assist, he wanted to know right then. He swallowed the rest of his overpriced water and crossed the street.

        At the conex, he stood just outside the door silently watching the big man work on his partner. As he watched, the big operator finally rolled him over and settled him on the bunk lying on his left side, making sure that the ice remained in place. Then, after taking a step back from his ministrations looked right and noticed Kajetán. His fury was readily apparent from the look on his scar ravaged face, and when he reached for his side arm Kajetán held up his hands in surrender.

       “Help you?” he growled holding the gun chest high barrel downward at 45 degrees.

       “Corporal Kajitan, 2nd REP 4th company. Your man there,” he tipped his chin in the sleeper’s direction, “I think he gave me and my squad an assist, four weeks ago. Helped us out of a bad situation. Wanted to thank him.”

       The gun still hovered, so he remained still shifting his eyes between it, the sleeper and the Barrett now resting innocuously on a work bench to his left.

       “Rios, SSC and he didn’t have any orders to assist anyone. Now step off.”

       “D’accord, okay, fair enough. Then could you let him know I stopped in.”

       “Like I said, Repman, no assists from here.”

       Not to be put off, Kajetán nodded at the Barrett, “Was a .50 cal that cleared the mortars and RPG’s out. I’m certain of that. Not many around really. Nice work it was too. Three perfect shots from every bit of 600 meters. Thanks for your time.”

       With that, he backed from the small sandbag bordered entry way and headed back to his company.

           

 

 


	3. Three

Three

 

Once the legionnaire was gone, Rios set about finishing his tasks. The Barrett could wait. Salem would be pissed off, but that too was not of his concern. He turned away from Salem and faced the four tactical laptops spread out across the makeshift table. Murray. Murray wanted, was demanding, and had been demanding a sit rep every ten minutes for three days. If Salem thought that Rios was pissed off at him wait until he finally woke up and found himself in the mission runner’s sights. That settled, he decided to un-pack Salem’s ruck.

            The huge bag was a filthy mess, and Rios opted to drag it back outside so as not to cover their splinter scathed, plywood floor with ten pounds of sand. First, he dug out the three lap tops that Salem had recovered from the warlord’s hideout. He shook his head. Each weighed ten to eleven pounds. Salem had to drop food and other non-essential gear to balance his load. He’d wanted to simply upload the hard drives to HQ, but Section Eight had warned that the up-link was flaky. Murray, in turn, ordered Salem to tote them back. The twenty minute long tirade they listened to, as he dumped and destroyed gear, was, Rios thought, one of the small man’s better ones. Along with the laptops, he’d scavenged paperwork, Flash drives, photographs of sect members and maps with marked coordinates. A good haul, a damned fine haul, and the man should be but would not be applauded. It was, after all, his job.

       After stacking the intel on the far end of the table the big operator simply up-ended the still bloated bag. What would have normally been a very orderly assortment of gear was instead a total mess. Rios sighed. Salem must have been really irate about the extra weight. Despite his disorderly housekeeping, when packing for patrol he bordered on obsessive compulsiveness. The sparse spare clothes, he tossed in a corner. There was no food left and the Camelback was bone dry.  Salem’s long extra three days had been cruel ones, but that was what the younger man was bred for. The rest, sleeping bag, small shelter, med kit, maps, his dog eared dictionary and his personal gear of choice was cast into another pile. Let Salem sort the lot, he figured.

       Satisfied, he slid into the battered, backless desk chair, carefully balanced it on the remaining four of hive wheels and started working on the Barrett. It was showing its age. Salem refused to part with the relic, though, and Pedro was having fits keeping it operational. As he dropped the magazine, he idly wondered if they too were showing their age, and getting worn down as well. He looked into the battered mag and sighed. Salem was slipping. It held only four rounds. Four when there should be five, a full magazine. Frowning, he rifled through the drag bag and came up empty. He stood and moved to the man’s tactical vest, maybe he’d stashed the remaining three rounds there, everything else was a disorganized mess. Again, nothing, but before he could work it out, Murray’s voice crackled in his left ear, and the Legionnaire’s in his right, ‘It was three rounds with a fifty cal…’, and he’d be damned, Salem was indeed three rounds light. He moved to the laptop array and brought her up on the second screen from the left.

       “Save it, Murray. He’s back. Comms shit three days ago. He was running late. Running about thirty pounds over weight.”

       “Lap tops? I need to debrief him too. Get him up on comms.”

       “Yes, no he’s crashed and despite three days without food or water, he’s fine. Thanks for asking. Are you ready to up-load?”

       “Tyson, there is no reason to cop an attitude. Are _you_ ready to up-load? The client is anxious.”

       “On it now, lap top one is coming your way now. He’s three rounds light.”

       “Say again, Tyson.”

       Rios looked over his shoulder at his slumbering partner, shrugged and returned to the task of hooking up the second lap top.

       “Light, Alice, three rounds light, and I got a fucking Repman lurking around my god damned hooch trying to thank him for what he calls an _assist_. An assist four weeks ago, in the way of three beautiful 600 plus yard .50 cal. rounds. Think, Murray. Four weeks ago…over an hour of comms silence. The little bastard took out combatants, not in our ROE, and the Repman…”

       “Then, silence the Repman. The Legion is known for its professionalism. He’ll understand. Third laptop ready? We do not need a diplomatic scene with this client. He is offering several years of work moving forward.”

       Rios hit the required keys and fumed. There were times that he hated the job, Murray and Salem. This was one of them. What the hell had Salem been thinking? Why hadn’t he just turned away? It wouldn’t have been the first time that they’d left men to their fate. Murray’s voice drew him back.

       “Pack it all up, Tyson. A courier will collect it 0500. You two are staying in country indefinitely. Oh, and as soon as Sir Galahad wakes up, I need him up on comms.”

       “Copy that, 0500, staying put, Salem up on comms post haste. Rios out.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A good deal of mixed up languages in this chapter. So, once again, I look forward to any corrections and apologize for any dreadful gaffs I might have committed.

Four

 

For three days, Kajetán lurked across the street from Salem and Rios’ hooch. During those three days, he’d learned a little, he hoped, about his target. In the general PMC community, the duo was well known. Well known, though, didn’t mean that anyone would talk about them. He sipped his water and pinched off a chunk off of his soggy croissant. How did a man sleep for three days. Theo though, had, through several contacts, found an ex-legionnaire in camp, a Russian, who had been a contractor in Djibouti back in ’92-’93 and remembered the duo.

        Theo’s Russian recalled, with great clarity, a tiny Ranger who packed a mysteriously acquired Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifle and once adequately primed with first Stoli and then Krononbourg, he joyfully regaled them with stories about the man’s antics. According to this Russian, the Ranger was the bane of the F.O.B. He knew no bounds. As for soldiering, the Ranger, or, as he called him, _ozornoy mal’chik_ , mischievous boy, was a near genius. While he watched Rios shaving, shirtless in the shade of the duos camouflage netting, Kajetán let the odd night play back in his mind.

#

        Theo, always industrious, had sought out, found and procured Glyb, a Russian PMC working for one of the shadier outfits. Glyb, an ex-Legionnaire, was drunk and more than happy to escape his mercenary mates and chat with his _brothers_. Once they got him settled down, he leaned back in his camp chair, laughed uproariously and offered up a mumbled toast in Russian to the Legion. Kajetán prodded him to get on with it.

       “The boy, friend Glyb,” he pressed in Russian, “You promised to tell us about the boy.”

        Glyb nodded his bulbous head and grinned a snaggle toothed grin. If his eyes got any redder, Kajetán thought, they’d catch fire.

       “Da, mischievous little, beer thieving fucker. This, _this_ is beer. It’s been too long. He just shows up, _videt’_ , _see_ ,” he started off in passable English. English worked. Kajetán and his men all had passable English. “Filthy, starved, scrawny and beaten to shit. They give him to that big one, the Tank. Son of bitch, that one. Real sadistic fucker, videt’. Do not cross Tank. So, they fix this boy up, videt’. He goes to work. Him and Barrett like lovers. Stories start going round. Little sniper with big attitude, old eyes, short temper. He gets noticed by nasty Russian bastard, another sadistic fucker, Vasily Tyannikov, videt’. Vasily, that one has no soul. Sniper took lover in Mazar I Sharif.” Glyb paused, shook his head and swallowed hard, “bad, dark soul, Tyannikov…he has one reason for breathing, videt. Kill Zolotov, sniper that killed lover. Lover died by Barrett, boy has Barrett brought from Sarajevo mountains, Zolotov’s hunting ground. Do math. Not good for boy, videt’.”

        He went quiet and held out his monstrous left hand for another beer. As Kajetán handed it over he noted that the middle, ring and pinky finger were lobbed off at the lowest knuckle and the index at the first. Glyb noted the look and grinned again, proudly. Then, after taking the sweating bottle continued.

       “Da, go ahead, fuck with Tank.” He said gleefully waggling the damaged hand in the air.

       “That big bastard, on shop track, took your fingers?” Theo spat out, having done that math.

       Again, Glyb laughed and shook his head, “Da, videt’, Glyb and Tank crossed roads in Bolivia, Glyb lost. Do not fuck with Tank. Rumor too says, do not fuck with Tank’s boy.”

       “The big man, this Tank, chopped off your fingers. Why?” Kajetán asked, as incredulous as he was intrigued.

       “Glyb worked for drug cartel, Tank U.S. Army drug interdiction, ass wipes, videt’. Glyb refused to give coordinates to main camp. Not chopped,” he shrugged and then made a sawing motion back and forth with his right hand, “Sh-sh-sh-sh…sawed with little saw, very slow, knuckle by knuckle, videt’. He is fucking sadistic _tête de nœud_.”  

       “Donc, vous le connaissez. Merde!” Theo shouted.

       “Nyet, no more, no. Long time ago. Different war. Now, he is gray hat merc, Glyb…black hat still, different circles. But Glyb is here for boy. The Tank, he hates boy. He…”

       “Glyb, do you know the boy’s name?” Kajetán asked.

       “Nyet. Maybe through vine. Word travels. Videt’ Tyannikov, he has team, elite, dark, no souls, they set upon Boy. _Everyone_ sees this. Tank, that bastard does nothing. He watches.” He spat to his left and curled his lips in a disgusted twist. “Boy is _his_ man, videt’. Boy has shown worth, several times, but Tank…no heart that one. He watches Tyannikov’s dogs beat Boy senseless. Then Tyannikov finishes him.To Boy he offers job, Da, videt’, job. _He_ sees Boy’s worth. Too he wants Boy close so he can figure if he killed Zolotov. Boy tells him no. You do not tell Vasily Tyannikov no. Glyb told Tank no, Glyb lost fingers. Boy…Tyannikov and Tyannokov snapped wrist. Bad sound that. Hurt Glyb to hear it. Bad night for Boy.”

            Kajetán held up his right hand to pause Glyb. “The story doesn’t make sense. If this Tank hated this Boy why the hell are they still a team a decade later?”

            Glyb shrugged and waggled his empty, between left thumb and half an index finger, requesting a refill. At this rate, Kajetán thought, they’d be out of their supply by morning. How was it that Glyb could reside a few hundred yards from the Tank and not be bothered by it? Mercs he thought, what a disturbing lot.

            “The boy said the Tank was his. Do not ask Glyb to explain. What is word, videt’…rassmatrivat, rass…”

            “ _Consider_ , consider what, Glyb?” Theo interjected impatiently.

            “Da, consider, consider that down road, Tyannikov and Boy became friends, videt’. Maybe more than friends. How do I say it? Ah, let Glyb use old French, Da! Ah, allez comprendre, videt’. Oui?”

            “Oui.” Kajetán said, “Go figure. D’accord, Glyb, mon frère, d’accord. Okay, so what happened? Merde, give him another beer Illya, for fuck’s sake the man can drink.”

            “Merci, spasibo, thank you.” Glyb took the beer, held it paused at his thick lips, and met the glares of the Legionnaires with an incredulous innocence,  “Chto? Okay, then, videt’, the Boy and the Tank take out the local warlord as a _twosome_ , videt’. Two against how many, who can say? But those two fucks took out Mo’ Alim. Glyb was there. God is my witness. Videt’, they are like the rumor, Un Armee de Deux, An Army of Two.” Then, he held up his near empty bottle in a second toast, “K nenavidet’!,  oh and too Detester!, To hate! Go figure.”

            “Detester.” Kajetán and the team responded. Then he pushed for the answer that he had wanted all along, “You said, Glyb, that maybe you had a name?”

            Glyb sipped his beer and stared out and up at the night sky. Names were a protected item in the game. He had names. He had stories and rumors, but where and how they all intersected and where the truth ended and lies began was an ambiguous and secretive realm.

            “My brother, Kajetán, wants name of Boy. Why? Glyb has only seven fingers left and blood is old and thin. Not good for loosing more digits to Tank.”

            “I need to thank him. He helped us out of a bad situation. Une aide, pomoshch’ tu. Comprendre, Glyb? We would not be here, but for that Boy! You will not be mentioned. You have my word. But I have an obligation of honor to thank him.”

            “Da, Tyannikov, that night, he too said he wanted to thank him, the Boy,” then dismissively, “eh, then he snapped his right wrist. Ever hear wrist snap, Chiot Têtu?”

            The word froze Kajetán’s team. Chiot Têtu, stubborn puppy was his legion nickname. Where had he heard it? He looked hard into Glyb’s glazed red eyes and held the stare. Had the man played them? He was certainly better informed than he had let on.

            “Your beer is good, Chiot Têtu. The Stoli your man bought me was good too, Chiot Têtu. Your company is good, a blessing even, merci beaucoup, mais, videt’, Chiot, Glyb is not fool. Drunk yes, but not fool. The Boy is not only the Tank’s, videt’, the Boy is also Tyannikov’s. And this _Boy_ is no longer boy.” Glyb chuckled ominously sitting up, leaning in toward Kajetán and wavering a bit, “This boy was soldier then, and now…what, Chiot Têtu, do you know of his mission? Nothing, da. Did you see him in camp before he returned? Nyet. Videt’ they dropped him out _there_ , Chiot. So secret is their mission. Names? I will give you names. Give me beer, Theo. Merci. The Boy, when Tyannikov broke wrist, he named him, Malen’kiy Barsuk, Petit Blaireau, Little Badger. That Boy, Chiot, could wipe your team out, alone, without breaking sweat. With Tank…Glyb need not say more. Names…Tyson Rios is the Tank and the Boy…Salem; Elliot Salem and together, Une Armee de Deux.”  Seemingly finished, Glyb stood and stretched out his back. He downed the last of his last beer and surveyed the group of young men looking up at him. But before he moved into the dark street, he paused, “Oh, and brothers, guard your beer. A certain little Badger loves beer, especially, videt’ when it is somebody else’s. Bonne Nuit.”

#

            Kajetán sighed and pushed the sodden Croissant into the center of the small round table. Rios, as he now knew him, was finishing up his shave. Rios, Salem and Rios, once they had the names the stories seemed to fall from the heavens. The pair were, just as Glyb had described, a force to be reckoned with. The cliché irked him. As he watched, Rios tossed the gray water into the street and turned quickly back toward the hooch. The quickness caught his attention. Then, lurching from the conex was the Boy, the little badger, the thief. He paused, a hand on each side of the doorway leaning out a bit, a length of IV tubing hanging from his right arm. Even from across the street his condition was clear. The man was wiped out. Rios dropped the bowl and strode rapidly to his partner grabbing him just as he started to fall. They seemed to fuss a bit, and then Rios settled the far smaller man on the pile of un-used camo nets stored up against their conex. He then disappeared inside and finally returned with a med kit. To Kajetán’s further surprise, he reinserted the IV and after squatting beside the Boy for a bit finally stood. Whatever else the duo was, they were certainly odd.

 

           

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Five

 

After about thirty minutes, Rios removed the IV from Salem’s arm, pointed him in the direction of the shower, in the rear of the conex, and then got in the jeep. Kajetán, dipped his head down a bit to keep the big man from recognizing him. For a moment, he considered going across and waiting for Salem to finish his shower and confront him. Then, he recalled Glyb’s missing fingers. Maybe, he thought, running into a returning Rios was not a good plan. He’d just have to be patient.

       While he waited, Salem finally wandered back from his shower. He’d dressed in black cargo pants, tucked half in and half out of brown boots and was shirtless. He stood for a bit scrubbing a towel through his hair and studying the laptop screens. Apparently, whatever he was seeing there did not please him. He tossed the towel over the center two and as he turned away flipped them the middle finger of both of his hands. The rude gesture elicited a chuckle from Kajetán, and he a vision of Rios chopping the smaller man’s fingers off as punishment. Before he had long to consider it, though, Salem exited the hooch, shuffled across the dirt track and into the coffee shop. Without giving any of the other patrons a second look, he snatched open a cooler grabbed out two six packs of an American beer and moved to the counter. After taking out his wallet, he popped open one of the bottles and chugged it while the clerk rang up his purchase. Then, change in hand, he left the empty on the counter, turned and crossed back to his hooch. For his effort at scolding his inconsiderate customer, the clerk received the same gesture that the laptops had.

       Back in his hooch, Salem opened a gun safe and took out what to Kajetán looked like the .50 caliber Barrett. He toted it back to the work bench retrieved his beers and sat in the rickety chair.  Even from across the track the Legionnaire could see that the small man was talking to himself. He took a long pull of his beer, lifted the big gun and checked to make certain it was clear of ammo. Then he started tearing it down. The idea that he was redoing Rios’ work confused Kajetán. From hearing Glyb’s praise it would seem that the two men had to have immense trust in one another. Granted you didn’t just trust your weapons to anyone, but these guys didn’t appear to be just anyone to each other. On top of that, if body language was a dependable gauge, the man seemed to be displeased with his partner's job.

       Four beers into the job, Rios pulled back up and carried two Styrofoam containers of food into the hooch. He passed behind Salem and stopped short when he saw the beer. He picked it up, shouted some admonition, and slapped one of the boxes down in its place. Then he opened it and with the plastic fork, he pointed at the steaming meatloaf like a scolding parent. Salem collected the meal and after grabbing a fresh beer traipsed out to the large cable reel turned table and sat down. Rios followed him with his meal and a bottle of water. This worked out well for Kajetán, and he shifted from his seat inside to an outside table in the shade of the camouflage. From there he could hear the duo’s conversation.

       “Judging from your towel on the laptops, I’m guessing that you haven’t talked to Murray yet.” Rios snapped after opening his plate.

       “I didn’t have time. I was re-cleaning the Barrett. Someone did a shit job.”

       “How are feeling? Don’t eat so fast, Kermit. The Barrett was fine.”

       “Three grains a sand in the bolt carrier, and five in the front lens cap. Thanks for the food.”

       “You can count sand, how about rounds. Your three light and some nosy Repman was poking around wanting to thank you for an assist.”

       “Don’t say. You gonna eat both of those bun thingys?”

       “Here, what did you lose fifteen, eighteen pounds.”

       Salem reached across the table and grabbed the bread. “Yea, there about. Don’t feel that bad though, Tyse. Tired but not bad. What’d you tell the Repman?”

       “To get lost. What do you think? Salem, that shit is not in our ROE. That shit will lose us work. Murray wasn’t pleased.”

       "How the fuck does she know?”

       “Debrief Salem?”

       “Trust much Rios, fuck me twice, there’s shit we do not always need to share with madam snippy. Wasn’t gonna leave ‘em to die.”

       “Done it before.”

       “ _You_ done it before. I just followed orders. This one was on me Rios, and me, I, made the decision. So fuck your ROE. What’s the Repman’s name.”

       “Kajetán and you need to steer clear of those guys. Those guys are sons a bitches.”

       “So are we. ‘Sides, Tyse, you said they wanted to thank me. I hear that they drink good beer though. Kronenbourg, or some such shit. I…”

       “Don’t you even, fucking for a god damned minute, think about it, Salem. We aren’t in Djibouti anymore.”

       Salem laughed aloud, which actually drew a smile from the bigger man. “No worries, Tubby. But seriously, Tyse, Murray, bro she’s Murray, but what goes on with us, us when we are in the shitty, is our shit. Okay.”

       “Salem, Murray sees pretty much everything we do. She knows that you had ten rounds, knows that you used three, when we report supplies, which I have to do, she’d have had questions.”

       “Rios, I could have dropped three rounds anywhere, so give it up. I just want to know you got my six with this shit. It’s important.”

       Rios leaned back and crossed his arms on his chest. When Salem was tired, and he was if not physically, emotionally, he tended toward being a bit insecure, which is what was happening now. He’d spent a month out in the wild alone, in danger, doing what at best was morally ambiguous work. Now, he needed to be reassured that Rios was there for him.

       “You know I do, Elliot. If I didn’t nobody else would, fuck up that you are. Now eat these string beans and fries and go debrief with Murray.” He said, then after sliding his plate across to Salem, he stood up, crossed to him, stopped, squeezed both of his bare shoulders and leaning down said something in his left ear that Kajetán couldn’t hear.

       The entire scene saddened the Legionnaire a bit. He was close to his team. They were his only family. But something about these two was deeper. They had some un-spoken connection and Kajetán wanted to know more about it.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Six

 

Back at Kajetán’s camp, while cooking dinner on a fire burning in an old truck rim, he related the day's events to his men.

            “They’re pretty odd.” He began. Sipping his Krononbourg. “I watched and listened and then the Salem one, he’s…”

            “He is small one, no?” Theo asked.

            “Oui, oui, Theo, and he is small too. Très petit and carrying scars, many scars. But it is strange between them. Rios, he scolds and praises and comforts all in the same sentence. The little one, for someone so confident, someone who does his job he was very peu sûr.”

             “ _Peu sûr_! The little fuck was out on a solo patrol for a month. _Insecure_ doesn’t quite fit the job requirement for that, Chiot.”  

            “I know, I know, but he was mad that Rios told, I guess their command, about helping us, like it was telling a secret. I don’t know, guys. There is something about them.”

            “Marcus talked to a guy who used to work for that SSC. Tell him, Marcus.”

            Marcus looked up from stirring their stew and smiled. “Big one, bigger than Rios. JB goes by JB and he said he’s heard of them. He said…”

            “Why are you talking to mercs?”

            “Easy Chiot, met him at the range. Said those two are a couple of mean bastards. Said when SSC took them on they re-write book on how to operate small teams in confidence. Just them, they are responsible for some big, kills Chiot, and that little one that little one; another guy out there said that he fights like, well like Glyb said a Badger. Too the big one is ex school of Americas fucker.”

            “Great. Thanks.” Kajetán said taking his bowl of stew, “I guess we just need to be glad, thankful that he was around.”

            Several days later just before sunrise, the camp's alert sirens sounded and the first mortars began dropping in.

            “Fuck’s that!” Salem hollered rolling out of his bunk and moving straight to his weapons. “Rios, Rios get your fat ass moving man! We got incoming. Shit!”

            “On it, Kermit.” Rios snapped back sliding on his vest and slipping into the chair behind the laptops. “Delta HQ, Delta HQ. talk to me. Tell me you have eyes on us.”

            “Negative Rios, sit rep.” Murray’s voice came back.

            Another mortar hit inside of the F.O.B. and both men hunched up. “We have incoming mortar fire and from the sounds of it sniper fire. If you can get me eyes on, I am coming Salem. Eyes on their positions…yea and comms check in fifteen. Yes, Salem, I know! Listen Murray switching to masks we gotta bolt.”

            They paused long enough to do a check of their gear and check comms. Then they ran out into the fray. Men were running about manning designated positions. Salem and Rios had no particular place so they opted, because of Salem’s Barrett to find some high ground. That high ground was an old three story tower that made up the eastern corner of the camp. They pushed past men of several units and hunching low to avoid the spray of bullets made for the southeast corner.

            “Fuck me twice, the fuckers are bold as brass, Tyse!” Salem squeaked sliding into cover. “What the fuck brought this shit on?”

            “I hear you, man. There, how ‘bout that scupper? Can we get eyes on them there? Go ahead Giddy. Salem bust that bitch up! Make it bigger and back your skinny ass up. No, you're Army fine. We’re SSC, we got this corner, and we don’t fuckin have time to argue the point, so step off! God damn it, Salem, lay some fire on those fuckers. Giddy eyes or no?”

            “Negative, Rios working on it. M.I.T. says at least forty-five mikes until he can get a satellite repositioned. Fuck, they are hammering you though. Listen to that shit. Keep your heads down man.”

            “You think! Rios out! Salem?”

            “Get a scope up. This scupper is shit. This fucking concrete is a million years old. Gonna have to blow it.”

            “Then blow it, demolition man. FFL fine yea, man we got this quad covered. Take the other one. Salem?”

            “In three, two, one go me! A bigger hole. Where’s my scope? Fuck me, they are getting closer.”

            “I got a mortar at two o’clock. See that double peak, move down, 150 meters, see..”

            “Got him. Red shirt.”

            “You see that cross wind, kicking up dust?”

            “Copy that.”

            A moment later the Barrett cracked.

            In the opposite corner, Kajetán spun around. The sound of the .50 caliber weapon was unmistakable. He stared at the man lying in the far corner. He couldn’t believe that they’d all ended up on the same roof. Theo slapped him hard to get his attention. He looked back out across the valley and nodded. He sighted down the barrel of his own weapon and settled in. Three hours into the fire fight, his team was ordered off of the roof to prepare for a counter attack. As he packed up his gear, he looked at the two men in the corner. Salem had not moved. He hadn’t moved and the .50 had fired relentlessly since the beginning of the assault. All he knew was that the man’s skill was impeccable and that he’d single handedly hampered the attacking forces advance, and shut down the mortars. His team had, of course, helped. But the two mercs had been far more efficient. Once on the ground, he circled his men up and prepared to move out. He hoped that Salem would remain in place to provide them cover.

            The ground mission straggled on for nearly three days and when Kajetán returned to the F.O.B. his men were exhausted. Despite that, after releasing them, he went to Salem’s hooch. When he wasn’t there, he went to the tower. On the roof, he found Rios sitting with his back to the wall, legs outstretched and feet crossed eating from a Styrofoam box. Beside him, in the shadow of the low parapet wall, Salem was curled up in a tight ball asleep. The scene was absurd. Throughout his team’s advance on the attackers, he’d heard the .50 cal firing. Salem had not stood down for the duration of the battle. The more he learned about the man, the more intrigued he became. Too tired to have any sense, he wandered over and slid down sitting against the wall next to Rios.

            “Keep your voice down. Do not wake him up, Repman.”

            The order was growled and somewhat garbled in between Rios’ chewing. None the less Kajetán understood it. He nodded tiredly and relaxed slightly.

            “Thank you again for the assist. That fifty fire gave us a big advantage. Funny thing is, it came from not just here but from the ridge to the south. Funny thing is, when we got to that village up on the mortar fire ridge, somebody had been there already cleaning house.”

            Rios only grunted and shoveled another fork full of spaghetti into his mouth. That their cover fire had been helpful was an obvious fact, so what did the man want? To thank Elliot, sure, but, he was trying too hard. They were all in the shit together. Thanking wasn’t needed. Salem eliminating random targets to defend a stuck French Foreign Legion squad was one thing but when they themselves were under direct attack they had right to protect themselves.

            “You don’t say.” Rios offered, closing the food box and setting aside. Then, he looked over at Salem and shooed some flies away from his face.”

            “You guys, you have a chopper. We saw a chopper. I just…what the fuck are you guys?”

            Salem stirred and Kajetán watched Rios squeeze the smaller man’s shoulder. Then he turned back to the Legionnaire.

            “We do what we have to do. Just like you, Repman. Why?”

            “Why do all that and then come back and, well and do this?”

            “ Again it’s what we do. Look, I am tired. He is, well he is exhausted. Let’s settle your need to be thankful. Let me get him rested and then stop by. Two maybe three days, good enough?”

            “Merci beaucoup.”

           

           

           

           

           


	7. Chapter 7

Seven

Two hours later, Kajetán and his team watched Rios and Salem walk back down the track toward their hooch. What he hadn’t told Rios was that they’d actually seen the two fast rope in just outside of the village. For a short time, he lost track of the pair, but once they began the door to door clearing of the village they stumbled across the duo again. What he witnessed was burned into his memory.

#

            Twenty minutes after their insertion into the village they heard a chopper coming in fast. They couldn’t identify it and at first and cautiously targeted the unmarked intruder. Then they watched, in confusion, as two men fast roped down, and hit the ground running.

            “I’ll be a son of a bitch, Chiot, it’s them!” Theo hollered identifying Rios and Salem by their sizes alone. “The sizes and those masks.”

            “Seems it. Move out and watch your backs. We don’t know them enough to trust blind, d’accord?”

            Then they moved out. Later in the day, they crossed paths with them again and from their sniper position watched as the two mercenaries cleared house after house with two man close quarter combat. At one point, Kajetán, from his vantage point, as an over watch, saw Salem jump down into a dead end alley from a second floor window. Right after the small man landed, seven or eight assailants rushed out from a side entry, probably, the Legionnaire thought, flushed there by Rios, cutting Salem off from the street. The alley was a tight space, only an arm's breadth wide, and Salem, after rolling to his feet, his back to the wall, effortlessly switched from what Kajetán judged to be a Galil GAR1639, to his side arm in his left hand and a large fighting knife held back handed in the right. He took up a fighting stance, and when the men charged, he fired at them hitting several. Out of ammo, after only nine rounds which surprised Kajetán, he holstered the gun and eliminated the rest with vicious deliberation using the knife and what Legionnaire could only describe as the best hand to hand technique he’d ever seen. Then, he flipped his mask up, took a pull from his Camelback and spit. After a few deep breaths, Salem swiped the Randall fighting stiletto on his left calf cleaning the blade before sheathing it. Then the mercenary drew the hand handgun and slapped a new magazine into it.

       When Rios finally popped out of the door, Salem was moving from body to body. Finding three still alive, he pulled the knife out again and calmly cut their throats. The duo spoke briefly, while he again cleaned the knife. Content with its condition, he sheathed it and suffered Rios spinning him around checking him for wounds. Then, after searching the bodies for intel, and ammo, they stacked the weapons, set an AN/M14 grenade on the cache and moved out of the alley, onto the street. Not long after, the Helo reappeared and they fast roped up and disappeared.

       Later, during the night, lying shoulder to shoulder with Theo behind a crumbling farmstead wall trying to snatch a few hours sleep, Kajetán heard the .50 cal firing from a ridge south-east of the village and a mortar that had been targeting the village went silent. Theo, chuckled as the echo of the report withered away on the chill night breeze.

       “If nothing else, Chiot Têtu, the little bastard certainly gets around.”

       “Did you see him fight?” Kajetán said quietly his awe plain.

       “À vois voir le visage, on dirait le coupe de foudre. Hé, Kajetàn. Here, have it. I’m done. Just keep it down.”

       He took the cigarette, tucked it between his dry lips, drew a long slow pull and exhaled slowly watching the thin smoke waft upward into the star speckled black sky. “Merci, d’accord, et va te faire foutre, Theo. Fuck you. Not love, respect. Did you see how he handled his weapons, how they set those guys up and ambushed them in that alley.”

       “I saw him, yes. Saw them both. They are _fou_ , crazy, Chiot. Being good soldier not the same as being crazy. You, Chiot, are sometimes crazy, but you are good soldier first.”

       “Go ahead, Marcus. Copy that. Out.” Kajetán said into the radio on his left shoulder. “The Americans have the stragglers pinned up in the west ravine. Tomorrow will be an easy push, now. Mop up and home.”  

       He felt Theo nodding against his side. After a final puff on the remainder of the cigarette, he crushed it between his thumb and forefinger, putting it out, and then field stripped it with practiced ease. Next to him, Theo rolled over onto his right side and pulled his coat a bit tighter round his weary body. He looked at his partner and studied his grimy features in the tallow hued moonlight. The younger man was exhausted, and troubled, Theo thought. Kajetán had come to the legion impossibly young at seventeen and a half and stunned everyone by making it through selection and excelling where older, more mature ex-military men had failed. They’d all been together since then, and the American had the unconditional respect of the team. Theo hated seeing him confused and unhappy. He reached out patted his chest and then pinched his stubble covered chin between his thumb and index finger.

       Then shaking his head in rhythm with his words said, “Écoutez-moi mon petit Chiot. »  He began and then released him leaving his heavy arm across the smaller man’s chest, “These two are not for us. They are dark, Chiot, dark, dark men. Devils and not good ones. Not the ones we want marching with us. You get too close and that dark will swallow your soul. And you Chiot Têtu have good soul. Now, close your awestruck eyes and go to sleep. Marcus has the watch. We are safe in his hands.”


End file.
